Precious Things Read Online Free PDF Page A

she’d been sitting here for much of the day, hunched over her sewing. The light had leached from the enclosed sitting room and the window framed a sky the pale purple of a bruise.
    Aimée longed to be breathing in the cold air outside, drawing it deep into her lungs. She could almost feel the wind gusting around her as she galloped along. But there was very little chance left for riding today. Maybe never again , she told herself, feeling suddenly bleak. Unless Bernard approves.
    When Aimée thought of Bernard, her husband-to-be, all she could identify was a deep quiver within her, like an instrument’s strings being plucked for tuning. She tried capturing the sensation before it dissipated. Bernard’s earnest features inspired a deep stony dread within her belly, but something else as well . . . She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. They’d only met a few times: when he had arrived with Father at the estate one day and had been introduced to her, then at a deathly dull dinner Father had held, and the third time, just the day before, when he had called upon her alone. They had walked silently alongside each other up the poplar-lined drive, passing Gaston as he returned from town with the mail. The valet’s eyes had met Aimée’s for a moment, and she had felt her usual involuntary reaction – a flush, a catching of breath. Gaston had only arrived at the château recently, but Aimée had felt an inexorable pull towards him from his very first day, as though he were a dark star steadily drawing her towards him.
    Aimée closed her eyes momentarily, seeing again that flash of olive-skinned neck, where his dark curls met a starched white collar. Her instinct was to expose and claim it with a furtive, cat-like lick. His scent as he’d passed by was a mixture of sweat and lanolin and some rich, unidentified spice which seemed to have invaded her very being.
    â€˜That’s your father’s new servant, is it not?’ Bernard had asked, looking over his shoulder.
    â€˜Gaston,’ she said, the valet’s name lingering upon her tongue.
    â€˜Your father speaks highly of him. Says he’s the master of discretion.’
    Flustered, Aimée dropped her glove on the ground. They both looked at it for a moment, then Bernard bent to retrieve it. Aimée glanced at the ruddy, lined flesh on the back of his neck – the result of his years at sea, under harsh sunlight – and felt, rather than heard, the insistent thrum of a single played note inside her, growing ever more insistent. Straightening up, Bernard looked her in the eye as he handed the glove to her. Aimée lowered her gaze to his hand – large, with bony knuckles – and found herself with a sudden vision of her wedding night. But it was Gaston’s long, slender fingers – notBernard’s – that she saw stroking her beneath crisp linen sheets, lifting her nightgown . . . Aimée shuddered slightly. Although with excitement or revulsion, she couldn’t tell. Bernard glanced away.
    Father had explained to her that Bernard was a lieutenant with the Marine Marchande. Why he had never married before now, Aimée didn’t know. She might be naïve, but she had heard the stories about sailors. Although he may very well ask the same question of her: by most people’s standards, Aimée was too old to be married. Twenty-seven. Practically ancient. She was lucky to be marrying now, she knew. She’d overheard Faustine talking about her with the other maids, but had hastened away, unable to bear their false coos and sympathy.
    Aimée’s gaze fell away from the window. She looked down towards the collar, realising there was very little work left to complete. Picking it up again, she added several tiny seed-like beads. Then the last one. She tied off the hanging line of thread with a firm, fast knot, and used a pair of small embroidery scissors to snip off the